


The Muse

by TyrellMermaid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 08:06:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2341160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TyrellMermaid/pseuds/TyrellMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forsaking her political ambitions, Margaery now challenges the status quo through her artwork. However, the search for a perfect muse continues to frustrate her - until a mix-up at the modelling agency unexpectedly brings a young girl named Sansa to her doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Muse

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["In which Margaery is a painter, and Sansa is the model…"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/74498) by cosettefauchelevent. 



The heavy sun wafted through the window pane and Margaery swept the hair off her face. She raised a drink to her lips; her own concoction of pink lemonade and hibiscus. It looked beautiful as she drank, with the red petals waving like some strange underwater flame. Margaery had designed it that way. She only surrounded herself with only beautiful things now.

The ugliness of politics had taken its toll on Margaery. She had gone into it to make a difference, but a petty rival had dragged her personal life through every grimy public arena like a wet rag. If she had just been in her own constituency no one would have bat an eyelid. However, King’s Landing was that unsavory mix of illiberal attitudes and boredom that always leads to salacious gossip mongering. So Margaery had stepped down to concentrate on challenging attitudes in a different way; through art.

However, without a subject to inspire her, Margaery’s art had somewhat stalled. She had played around with still life, ridiculous bouquets of flowers that poorly mimicked true nature. She had even tried an abstract piece, playing with light and new technology. But as someone who worshipped the pre-raphaelites, that phase was always doomed to be short-lived.

So Margaery had turned to life models. This caused a brief sensation back at King’s Landing. _“The notorious seductress Margaery Tyrell uses artist-rouse to ensnare new prey”._ Her brother Loras had sent her that particular news clipping to make her laugh. Margaery liked it so much, she had it mounted on her studio wall. However, she was still looking for a model that truly inspired her. The agency had sent Margaery both women and men, all of them beautiful. But Margaery had felt no connection with them. She could only paint the surface, she couldn’t paint who they were.

Putting her drink down, Margaery absentmindedly laid her brushes out. She had been waiting for the new model to show up for nearly an hour now, and was growing restless. She had chosen for this piece a striking male model. He had ice blue eyes, delicately freckled skin and the whitest blonde hair she’d ever seen. The set-up she had in mind was that of a greek fable, with the model as the spirt Pan. She had brought in all these long grasses and flowers for the background, but now they were just wilting in the heat. Margaery let the air out of her lungs; she’d wait until the clock struck the hour before clearing up and calling it a day.

But then the bell rang.

 _Finally,_ Margaery thought, as she sprang up to answer the door. But before she could leave her studio, she heard a voice in the hall.

“Hello, your door was open. Anyone home?”

A woman’s voice. _Great. They’ve sent me the wrong model._

“Yes, come through,” Margaery called out lazily as she packed up her brushes, “I’m in the studio. But I’m sorry darling, I think the agency’s mucked up… Sorry for wasting your time but I was actually looking for — “

The studio door opened and Margaery turned round. Standing in the doorway was a delicate wisp of a girl, with soft red hair falling down in waves to her waist. Her limbs were long and her skin, milk white. She looked like a doll, apart from her eyes; Margaery had never seen such inquisitive eyes. And sad, she noted. She looks sad.

The girl bit her lip, “Am I in the wrong place? This is the address the agency gave me. They said I was to fill in for someone else, that’s why I’m so late. I was called in last minute…”

“No,” Margaery said, snapping out of her reverie, “You’re in the right place. You’re definitely in the right place. My mistake. Please, sit down. Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Thank you, um…”

“Margaery, Margaery Tyrell. And you’re name is?”

“Sansa Stark.”

“Wonderful. Have you modeled before, Sansa?” Margaery asked as she fussed around with the set-up. _Those grasses can go now_ , she thought, _but I’ll keep the flowers. Instead of Pan, she’ll be Persephone. The wife of Hades, rising up from hell and giving birth to Spring._

“No. I’ve only just joined the agency,” Sansa replied.

“That’s fine,” said Margaery, who had now moved behind an antique dressing screen and was sifting through a seemingly endless pile of garments. “The tricky part is standing still, it’s harder than it sounds! But we can still talk, though. To pass the time. Plus, I like to get to know the people I paint. Ah, here it is.” Margaery emerged from behind the screen holding a long grey skirt with and peach coloured corset.

Sansa’s face lit up, “Those are beautiful,”

“They are lovely, aren’t they” Margaery said, admiring the embroidery. “You can change behind the screen.”

“I can wear them?” Sansa said, with a mixture of relief and excitement. Margery nodded and smiled to see the girl so happy.

When Sansa stepped out from behind the screen, it took a while for Margaery to say anything at all. Sansa’s red hair cascaded down her back; flowing past alabaster skin all the way down to the rich grey silks of her skirt. She no longer looked like the waif-like girl who had stepped in earlier; but instead held herself with the quiet confidence and strength of a queen.

“You look beautiful, Sansa,” Margaery said and Sansa’s cheeks flushed with colour.

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling at Margaery. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Margaery felt as if a strong surge of electricity had run right through her. Hurriedly, she moved behind the easel to compose herself.

Margaery explained to Sansa the concept of the painting. “I don’t like to enforce a pose onto my models,” she told Sansa, “I like them to understand the character, so they can develop the pose themselves.” Together, they discussed the painting’s composition at length and found they were often on the same wavelength. In the end, Sansa stood with her left arm stretched out in front of her, towards the sunlight, and with her right arm curled behind her back. In her right hand she held a pomegranate and chose a dove-skull ring to wear on her left. In her hair, Margaery wove little flowers; half were vibrant and blooming, the other half, dried-up and dead. Margaery at first was keen not to crowd Sansa; but as she braided her hair, Sansa kept looking back at Margaery and drew ever closer. Soon their bodies were pressed close together and the heady scent of flowers surrounded them like a mist.

Margaery would remember that afternoon as one of the most enjoyable hours she ever spent painting. They talked at length and discussed all manner of things. From fashion (Sansa’s favorite topic), to baking and eventually, their lives before art.

“I thought I recognised you from somewhere,” Sansa said when Margaery told her about her past life as a Westerosi politician. “I actually was in King’s Landing a lot at one point because my fiancée was a politician there, but I…I called it off.” Margaery looked at Sansa with understanding.

“Is that why you’re here, doing this?” she asked. Sansa smiled sadly.

“Isn’t it the same for you?”

When the light changed, Sansa stayed to help Margaery pack up; and after that, she stayed just to carry on their conversation. In fact, it wasn’t until dinner that they both realised the time. _I’ll see her again tomorrow_ , thought Margaery, as she led Sansa to he door. _But I still wish she didn’t have to go…_ At the doorstep, they awkwardly said their goodbyes, before Sansa put an arm around Margaery and planted a soft kiss on her cheek.

They met each other every day after that to paint, and in that time grew very fond of one another. One day, when Margaery felt the painting had made enough progress, she called Sansa round to her side of the easel to take a look. Sansa gazed long and hard at the canvas. It was beautiful; reminiscent of Dante Rossetti’s work. Sansa turned to Margaery, her face glowing with pride. Gently she entwined her arms around Margaery’s waist. Margery could feel her heart beat fast in her chest. “Sansa,” she whispered before their lips met, leaving nothing in the room but silence.

Sansa and Margaery stayed in the studio all night that evening. They lit candles, made a makeshift bed of furs and flowers, and made love. They stayed up all night; their bodies entwined, talking about the present and the future, but never the past. After that, Sansa stayed at Margaery’s for days on end, only returning home for a few hours to get more clothes. Sometimes, after making love, Margaery would sketch Sansa as she laid out on the rug, basking in the warm glow of her orgasm.

“Do you know who Lizzie SIddal is?” Margaery asked during one of these moments. Sansa shook her head. “She was Rossetti’s muse,” explained Margaery. “He fell in love with her the moment he saw her and she inspired some of his greatest work.”

“Am I your Lizzie Siddal?” murmured Sansa, “Am I you’re muse?” Margaery thought about this for a while; her pencil sketching out a faint scar on Sansa’s bare shoulders.

“No,” she said finally, “Rossetti idolised Lizzie, but was unfaithful to her.” Sansa turned round to face Margaery, who in turn placed her hand on Sansa’s cheek. She leant down and kissed Sansa first on the forehead, then on her cheek, and lastly on the her lips. “No,” she whispered, her face close to Sansa’s, “You’re more than my inspiration, Sansa. You’re my partner, my equal; you’re half of me and I’m half of you.” Tears fell down Sansa’s cheek and Margaery wiped them away, “No, I love you too much for you to be my muse.”


End file.
